


they have gone through and through me, like wine through water

by areyoumarriedriver



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:03:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoumarriedriver/pseuds/areyoumarriedriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He tells himself he’s just more tired now – he never used to need this much sleep – advanced biochemistry, he’d boast. He’s just tired. And old. So very old. It’s what he whispers to himself as he parks the TARDIS in the vortex and stumbles down the hall to his room, his limbs heavy and his hearts aching.</p><p>He’s just tired.</p><p>And so very old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they have gone through and through me, like wine through water

**_they have gone through and through me, like wine through water_ **

_“Do you dream, Doctor?”_

_“Of course I dream.”_

It should have been an ending, he thinks.  A moment, a touch, a kiss, a declaration of love in as many words as he could say it in – it should have been goodbye. She’d clearly assumed it was, _goodbye sweetie_ , so why couldn’t he?

He tells himself he’s just more tired now – he never used to need this much sleep – advanced biochemistry, he’d boast. He’s just tired. And old. So very old. It’s what he whispers to himself as he parks the TARDIS in the vortex and stumbles down the hall to his room, his limbs heavy and his hearts aching.

He’s just tired.

And so very old.

He falls into the embrace of his sheets willingly, trying not to let the fact that somehow they still smell like her overwhelm him.

The grass is red, and she is laid out on a bright blue blanket, under the shade of a tree gilded in silver. Her hair is longer, and darker than he’s accustomed to, but her smile is bright and her white dress clings to her in all the right places. “Hello, my love,” she looks utterly unsurprised to see him, and he sighs, shoving a hand through his hair as he settles gracelessly next to her.

“You don’t seem very surprised,” he points out with a pout and she shrugs, plucking at a blade of grass and twirling it in her fingers.

“You’re terrible at goodbyes, sweetie. Always have been. It’s why I didn’t make you say it,” she looks at him seriously for a moment, her head tilted and her hair falling over her shoulder in a mass of curls.

“But you said it,” he points out, a touch petulantly. And there’s the rub – he’d said see you around (he’d meant _I love you_ ) and she’d said goodbye. It had nearly stolen his breath at the time.

“I needed to,” she answers him softly, looking at him with censure in her gaze. “It’s been forever – you’ve never come to call, not once. Off with my younger self, I understood. But I never thought you would, and I needed to let you go.” Her voice is like smooth glass as she speaks, slippery and the glare is meant to distract him. Make him look away. But he doesn’t – he keeps his eyes fastened on her face and watches her, buried beneath the surface. He sees the pain.

“I couldn’t come, not while you were still… out there. With me. I couldn’t think of you as anything but alive, River.” His voice is soft as he explains and she nods, her eyes fastened on the blade of grass that she is now twining around her fingers.

“And am I no longer out there, then? With you?”

“I’ve not seen you in ages. I kept meaning to travel, to come to call, but it hurts, River.”

“I know,” she speaks in a softer voice, and when she looks up, he knows what she means. It hurt him to see her. But it hurt her to live in here without him. Either choice hurt one or both of them, because he cannot lie to himself and say that seeing her hurts him more than living his life out there without her. “How’s Clara?” She finally asks, switching the subject but unable to ease the heavy tension between them.  The Doctor smiles slightly, plucking four blades of grass and weaving them together in his hands.

“She needed some recovery time. A million million lives is a lot to live. She doesn’t remember, not really. Just like they didn’t remember her.” He hears her hum in agreement.

“So what will you do while you wait? Save a few planets? Pluck up some other girl bent on adventure?” She smiles as she says it, and he shifts closer to her, tying the woven grass into a circlet. His hand reaches for hers – picking up the left one and pressing a soft kiss to it as he slides the scarlet braided grass over her third finger.

“I thought I’d catch up on my sleep,” he says softly, and when he looks up, she is smiling so brightly it puts the twin suns in the sky to shame.

_“Everybody dreams, Clara.”_

_“But what do you dream about?”_

“Something amazing happened,” he declares as he flops down on the blanket next to her, reaching to take her hands in his. She smiles, and the copper ring on her finger bites into his skin. He’d asked her once, how she’d made it real. She’d simply smiled and reminded him – it’s a dream. Anything can happen.

“Sweetie, I wasn’t expecting you!” She looks startled and he frowns, looking around.

“Why’re you here then?”

“I come here, sometimes. I’ve always loved it here.” She shrugs, glancing around and he shakes his head, remembering his excitement as he tugs her closer, until she is in his arms.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?” He sing-songs, and she laughs, low and in the back of her throat.

“I’m going to guess you developed a sudden appreciation for art,” she smiles and he stares at her, his mouth open as she lifts her brows, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. “You should know by now that I always know.”

“But how could you- you couldn’t possibly,” he makes a noise of disbelief and she giggles.

“Gallifrey falls no more, it was a lovely piece of art, you know. Buried in history, now who could possibly have ferreted that out for saving? I don’t suppose you know any experts in that sort of thing?” She is teasing him and his hearts leap and tangle as he buries his face in her hair, scoffing.

“Experts in history? Not a single one. I know a few archaeologists though, not the same thing.” She elbows him in the side as she laughs in disbelief.

“Well at least you didn’t claim to be one yourself, because that would have been horrifically laughable.”

“Who’s more of an expert than a time traveller?” He asks her with a grin as she rolls her eyes.

“How can you possibly learn the subject matter, when you keep altering its course?” She asks him seriously, and he opens his mouth, but closes it upon realising he has no good defense for that. “So, you finally remembered the Moment.”

“You can’t tell me you knew,” he shakes his head. “You can’t have. How could you?”

“A little bird might have told me, I really can’t say anything more,” she shrugs and glances at him. “Spoilers you know.”

His hearts trip in his chest as he gapes at her, shock keeping him still. “There aren’t any more River,” he points out. His hand lifts and winds through her hair – a bit lighter than that first time – he thinks she does it for him, because he’s much more familiar with golden curls than auburn.

“Aren’t there?” She asks archly, shaking her head. “Well, you wouldn’t know, would you?”

“I see you again? Out there?” His voice is hoarse as he asks, hope rising in his chest and filling him with a lightness he can’t seem to contain. “When? How?”

Her smile dims and she glances down at their hands, still intertwined. “Will you stop coming if you see her? Me, I mean? Go back to the way it was?”

He exhales softly, his fingers tightening on hers, “No. This is better in some ways. Lonelier in others. I _miss_ you when I wake up. But I know – I can see you again. All I have to do is dream.” His voice stutters to a stop, and he sighs softly. “Out there – I never knew if it was the last time you know? And I guess even when I thought it was, you’re telling me it’s not.”

“I don’t ever see you again,” her voice is sure, as she turns in his arms, untangling her hands to press against the sides of his face. “I never saw this face this old.”

His heart drops and he shakes his head with a self-depreciating smile. “No more faces, River. All used up.” He points out with a smile. “I sent you a message then,” he decides. “About the painting. One last love letter to my wife, eh?”

She breathes in, and then out with a smile. “Certainly not the last I’d hope. Write one anywhere in history, and publish it – I’ll always find them in here, you know.” She tilts her head as she looks up at him. “Biggest Library in the universe.”

“I could write you a story,” he smiles at her, his hearts settling again as she moves closer and kisses him.

“The best story,” she agrees and he blinks away the sting in his eyes. “An adventure,” she adds.

“No, River,” he shakes his head and leans in and kisses her, soft and sweet. He loses sense of time for a moment, feeling the seconds slip and drag until all there is, is her. When he finally pulls away, he remains close, breathing in her scent. “A fairytale.”

_“What everyone dreams about.”_

It happens so fast, because this time he’s ready, he thinks. He can feel the energy hum through his body, begging to burst forth and begin again. He wonders if he’ll be taller, older, younger. Ginger. Maybe. The thought makes him smile as he pulls the bowtie from his collar and lets it fall to the floor.

He will not be the same, he knows. And yet he will. He watches the fabric whisper to the ground, before he lets go, and it is over in a blink.

Not ginger, no. _Scottish_.

It’s almost as good.

Later, when he’s dressing – tweed is so five hundred years ago, really – he needs a coat with a good swish, the red is nice, he thinks. He needs, he needs, he needs….

His eyes catch the ring, worn and faded and well-loved, as if waiting for him. He slips it on, left hand, third finger and he smiles. “It’s a dream,” he muses to himself. “Anything can happen.” His voice echoes, unfamiliar to his own ears.

He never sent River that message, he thinks, and he smiles at the remembrance of it. “Never saw that face this old, oh you minx.” Maybe not a message then, he thinks. Maybe he’ll deliver it in person.

But first Clara needs calming down, and he knows just how it will happen. It’s already happened for him, after all. But then he can deliver a message to his young wife.

After a small nap of course. “Old man now,” he chuckles. “Might need more kips than ever.”

When he falls asleep, she is there.

She is always there.

This time, she runs to greet him, her arms wrapping around him and he hugs her back, easier than breathing. That’s good – he’d worried he might not be a hugger in this body. But no – maybe his arms only fit around her. She pulls back, a smile on her face. “Hello, sweetie.”

He kisses her instead, and she melts into him like he is oh-so-familiar.

He prays he will be, to her, because he can think of nothing better than having her with him, awake or asleep.

_“I dream about where I’m going.”_


End file.
